The Power of Dreams
by Trickster-Prophet
Summary: After the Apocalypse that never was, an Angel and A Demon struggle to comprehend their emotions. But with a devastating power set to return to Earth once more; is there any time left?
1. Chapter 1

It was a particularly unpleasant Tuesday morning in October when Crowley arrived at Aziraphale's bookshop. He was not in the best of moods; it was cold, windy and the weak shafts of sunlight breaking through the clouds were doing nothing to ease his cold-induced discomfort. He also kept getting odd looks from people he walked past, probably due to his sunglasses. He banged angrily on the bookshop door with a gloved fist.

"Bloody He- Somewhere! Aziraphale, open your door!" He shouted. He waited for a moment, but when the door did not open, he banged on it once more, this time with more force. He resisted shouting again, but only since he knew it would not make Aziraphale hurry and would only succeed in irritating the Angel enough to not give him anything to drink when he was finally let inside.

"Calm down, Dear." Aziraphale said, finally opening his door.

Crowley pushed past him into the warmth of the bookshop, "Where were you?!" He complained, shivering pitifully.

Aziraphale raise an eyebrow and didn't answer the question, "You're shivering." He stated.

"That's because it's bloody cold!" Crowley sulked, shrugging deeper into his jacket. He hated the cold, always had, and probably always would. Aziraphale liked to makes jokes about it being because he was a snake, which Crowley had long ceased pretending to be offended by. He wondered offhandedly when he had become exactly so comfortable with the Angel. Probably sometime after the – failed – apocalypse.

"Here." Crowley had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed Aziraphale had bustled off and returned with a cup of tea. Crowley drank it gratefully, hands wrapped around the cup, trying to draw some on the warmth into his icy fingers. Aziraphale returned to fussing around the bookshop.

"Feeling better?" Aziraphale asked after a few minutes. Crowley gave a sort of noncommittal 'hmm' in response, not looking up from his tea. It was black tea, the only way he would drink it, with absolutely no sugar, something he was adamant about. Aziraphale rolled his eyes whenever the subject came up (the Angel, needless to say, now took his tea with milk and two sugars, which he proclaimed was the proper way to do it).

Aziraphale returned to Crowley, gently but insistently helping out of his hat, scarf, gloves and coat. When Crowley's bare hand brushed over the back of Aziraphale's, the Angel let out a small, surprised noise.

"You're freezing." He proclaimed in shock, before grabbing Crowley's hand and dragging him through the shop to the staircase, which lead up to where he lived, when he could be bothered – which admittedly, wasn't often. He, like Crowley really only kept a living area for appearance sake. Like the downstairs area, a lot of the space was taken up by books of various ages, origins and conditions.

Aziraphale shifted some heavy-looking tomes from the couch and pushed Crowley gently down onto the cushions. He then turned and waved towards the fire, lighting it (Aziraphale had become a little more liberal with the amount of Miracle-ing he did these days - probably Crowley's fault).

He sat down next to Crowley, draping an arm around the back of the couch and smiling to himself when the demon curled against him, tucking his head against the Angel's chest. When he chuckled lightly, Crowley glared up at him.

"Not a word about this, Angel." He warned, "To anyone."

"Of course not, Dear." Aziraphale replied, "Although who I would be likely to tell, I really don't know."

Crowley mumbled something indecipherable and huddled closer, closing his eyes behind his sunglasses. Minutes later he was asleep.

Aziraphale sighed softly, and slid (Surprisingly gracefully) out from under his friend's sleeping form. He hesitated for a second. Friend? Where had that come from? He and Crowley were acquaintances, certainly, and they had had an Agreement that went on for years, but he was completely sure the demon had never thought of him as a _friend_. He had been completely satisfied with that, had been all these years, so why, now, was this idea creeping into his mind?

Shaking his head at himself, he carefully removed Crowley's sunglasses, leaving them closed neatly on the arm of the cough, smoothed down his friend's mussed hair and covered him with a blanket, before going back downstairs to open up shop. Some customers (not that he really got any) would distract him from his thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley dreamed. He didn't dream very often (something to do with the fact that demons didn't actually need to sleep, but he had made a habit of it that he was having trouble breaking) and when he did, it normally wasn't pleasant. But these dreams were not unpleasant in the slightest.

He dreamed of himself and Aziraphale, back before the whole Apocalypse-that-failed business. He dreamed about them doing normal things, having dinner together, getting drunk in the bookshop and talking about the most ridiculous things, Aziraphale criticising his driving as they drove down a road somewhere. Mostly, he dreamed of cold, rainy afternoons in the bookshop, surrounded by the smell of old paper and tea, watching as Aziraphale fussed about, repairing this or that book and babbling on about it until everything he said just faded into soothing, indistinguishable noise.

Crowley's dreams turned dark, and he found himself willing himself to wake. He saw Aziraphale, broken and bloody as only a mortal could be, his crumpled form at the feet of a woman with long red hair holding a blood-soaked sword. War. He hated the fact that he knew who she was, knowing somehow made it worse. But what he saw next sent a thrill of icy terror through him. He saw himself, a darker, tortured version of himself, but himself nonetheless, standing from a crouched position on the ground and placing himself beside War, staring down at Aziraphale's cold, broken body and _smiling_. Smiling like he was glad, like he had enjoyed his friend's death. And then he saw, in a burst of light he knew; he had been the one to kill Aziraphale.

Crowley jerked awake, breathing hard and covered with sweat. He struggled with the blanket draped over him for a few moments, before realising that it was, in fact, just a blanket, and not an evil entity out to smother him to death. He sat up, running a hand through his hair and over his face. He felt exhausted, which made little sense, since he had just been asleep. Pushing the blanket all the way onto the floor, he searched around for his sunglasses, finally finding them where he had knocked them onto the floor in his sleep. One of the lenses was cracked, and he really couldn't be bothered to fix them, so he left them on the floor and skulked downstairs.

Aziraphale was sitting behind the counter in the shop, nose in a book, cup of tea that never went cold at his elbow. He looked up when Crowley appeared from the stairs. He took in the demon's pallor and unsteadiness and quickly moved to his side, looping an arm around his waist and steering him back upstairs with a complaint of 'really, you should rest' which Crowley pretended to complain about but secretly agreed with.

Aziraphale sat him down on the sofa again (But not before Crowley aimed a vicious glare at the blanket he maintained had tried to kill him) and fetched them both another cup of tea. Tea seemed to be Aziraphale's solution to everything.

After almost ten minutes of sitting in silence together, Aziraphale finally asked, "Is there any point to asking if you wanted to talk about whatever you dreamed of?"

Crowley raised his head from where it had been drooping, "None at all." He replied, hunching in on himself a little. He swirled the dregs of his tea around in small circles, watching the tealeaves dance madly in the bottom of the cup. He didn't want to talk. He never talked about his feelings (he did, in fact, insist he barely had any) let alone with Aziraphale, who Crowley secretly feared would laugh at him.

"Come now." Aziraphale insisted, placing a concerned hand on Crowley's arm, "I don't like how troubled you look, my dear."

"I'm fine, Angel." Crowley almost snapped back. He reigned in his temper – somehow – simply because he didn't like the kicked-puppy look Aziraphale got every time he got angry and snapped at him. He glared instead at the wall, wondering if Aziraphale would be cross if he took out some of his anger on it. He probably would, now Crowley thought about it.

Finally, Aziraphale drained his teacup and stood. "Come on," He said, his usual good-humour back in place. He offered Crowley a hand up, which the demon ignored.

"Where are we going?" He asked a little sourly.

"Feed the ducks, of course." Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley sighed. "It seems to have warmed up out there, and the fresh air will do you good."

"I'll get my coat."


End file.
